


A Gathering Storm

by almanera4, Tarpeia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: grindeldore, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 19:37:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20476412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almanera4/pseuds/almanera4, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarpeia/pseuds/Tarpeia
Summary: As Voldemort gradually gains power, Albus Dumbledore finds himself besieged with pleas for help. But after the harsh sentence the Ministry has dealt to his lover, Gellert Grindelwald, there are much darker thoughts on his mind.





	A Gathering Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Deep Still Waters](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19345483) by [almanera4](https://archiveofourown.org/users/almanera4/pseuds/almanera4), [Tarpeia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarpeia/pseuds/Tarpeia). 

_ On my bed by night I sought him whom my soul loves; I sought him, but found him not. _

_ I will rise now and go about the city, in the streets and in the squares; I will seek him whom my soul loves. I sought him, but found him not. _

_ The watchmen found me as they went about in the city. “Have you seen him whom my soul loves?” _

_ Scarcely had I passed them when I found him whom my soul loves. I held him, and would not let him go. _

Song of Solomon 3

The image had remained the same throughout the years. The only detail that had changed was their age. The first time Albus had looked in the Mirror of Erised, he had seen his youthful reflection in Gellert’s embrace. They were laughing, their eyes playful and their motions tender. Ariana had joined them in the frame, and both young men had put their arms around her in a gesture of affection. She was radiant with good health.

With time, their reflections had aged. His features had become lined and his hair snow white, but his happiness was contagious to behold. And Gellert… Gellert looked exactly the way he would have matured if spared from prison life. More charismatic than ever with his sharp gaze and his daredevil smile, he bore his years with graceful ease. By their side, adult Ariana was bursting with life; if there still was fragility to her limbs, it was overridden by her confidence. Her wedding ring implied she had become the mistress of a house of her own, a mother.

There was a reason the Mirror of Erised posed danger on an almost spiritual level: with its ability to lend tangible form to what could never be fulfilled, it blurred the edge between dream and reality. Curiously, this was why Albus had nothing to fear from it any longer: there was no risk that he should mistake illusion for truth.

Twenty-five years had elapsed since Gellert had been locked away in the dungeon of Nurmengard, subject to the cruellest conditions wizards could devise. All of Albus’s pleas on his behalf had been met with laughter and dismissal; the only mercy the gleeful politicians had granted him was visiting Gellert. Once a month, Albus would be admitted into the dark cell to speak words of love and encouragement to the chained wizard, only to find him unconscious or in a state of unresponsive stupor. He had watched his beloved grow emaciated from starvation, his lips always mute with the Silencing Charm. He had longed to touch him, but his hand would invariably meet a magical barrier.

There was no chance that he should mistake his wish for reality  _ because _ the difference between lifeless Gellert and his glowing image in the Mirror could not be starker. Albus had never missed a visit, and he was paying the price: day and night, his pain and rage ate away at him. Sometimes it felt as though nothing would soon remain of him but the desire for revenge. He did not shrink away from those emotions—they were all he had left at this point. Yet neither had he abandoned the hope of rescuing Gellert from his desperate situation or completing his work; he would not give up.

Chaos was creeping upon the wizarding community. The last years had been punctuated with riots in which the magical minorities had demanded equal rights to wizards, thus aggravating the pure-bloods’ discontent. All the while, the Dark wizard who intended to take possession of magical Britain lurked in the shadows, each of his attacks leaving a blow in an increasingly torn society. The opportune moment was coming, Albus could sense it. Whether it took days or months, the Ministry that had condemned Gellert to a lifetime of torment would come begging for help, and the showdown would start at last. It seemed so close at times that tension settled in his chest and his hands trembled with impatience.

The truth was, he had reached the stage where gazing into the Mirror of Erised had transformed from a whim into a need. When hopeless guilt threatened to consume him, the sight of Gellert’s happiness would clear his mind and guide him towards the goal he had set for himself years earlier. When his yearning for retribution made it impossible to draw a breath, he would seek out Ariana’s gentle smile, and the darkness within him would recede. It hurt to know the Mirror’s image could never come to be, but a little illusion of happiness was better than pure despair.

As the night began dissolving into a silver dawn, Albus ran a caressing hand across his lover and his sister’s reflections, which beamed at him. He knew he would be back. The world might have moved on with the passing years, but not him. Like his never-fading memories, love and agony had become a part of him.

Slowly, he made his way towards the Headmaster’s Tower, unaware his wish was about to be fulfilled sooner than he had expected. He had only finished perusing that morning’s copy of the  _ Daily Prophet  _ when a young Ministry employee asked to be admitted into his presence. His name was Howard Moore, and he was personal assistant to Eugenia Jenkins, the Minister for Magic.

One thorough glance at him revealed all there was to know. The boy could not be older than twenty-six. His pinstripe suit was crisp and his expression eager to please. In the Transfiguration class, he had shown himself to be a studious, ambitious pupil; it had taken him, in fact, a remarkably short time to climb the ladder of the Ministry hierarchy. Still, he was not nearly important  _ enough _ . He was not even a senior official.

Albus concealed his fury behind a paternal smile—a mask that came effortlessly these days. At long last, the government had admitted the threat posed by Lord Voldemort and was frightened enough to send him an emissary with a plea for help. And still,  _ still _ , despite their position, despite the decades of entreaties from his side, they were doing it again: they had sent him a boy with no authority to conclude deals, intent on using Albus anew without giving anything in return. They had transferred all responsibility onto this former student of his, hopeful perhaps he would succeed in pulling his old teacher’s heartstrings. The thought alone rekindled the rage that never stopped bubbling inside Albus. Deceptively, when he spoke out in greeting, his voice gained a benevolent quality.

"Mr Moore, it has been a while since I witnessed your graduation. A brilliant one it was if memory serves me correctly: eight N.E.W.T.s, not one below ‘Exceeds Expectations’. It's good to see you enjoying a well-deserved success."

The young man attempted a humble smile and instantly failed.

"Your memory is as sharp as ever, sir. How are you doing?"

"In excellent health, thank you. Won't you have a seat?"

Mr Moore complied with a polite if well-rehearsed expression of gratitude. His eyes met those of Fawkes the phoenix, and he nervously cleared his throat.

"But I’m afraid, professor, my visit isn’t entirely social. Though it is an honour to be back at Hogwarts."

"Is it so?" the older wizard returned on his mildest tone. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The boy hesitated. Albus was familiar with the signs, which were especially common in the students who strived for perfectionism: no matter how many hours they invested in preparation, they would fall apart at the last minute, unable to perform for the sheer fear of failure.

"You see, sir… we—all of us—are currently facing the greatest threat we have possibly ever faced. You must know… The wizard who calls himself Lord—ah, You-Know-Who—he… he must be stopped at all costs."

Albus let the words reverberate in his mind. He had fantasised of hearing them for longer than he could account for, and he had worked on turning them into reality for as many years: for Gellert, for their mutual dreams that had never come true, for his own sanity. Now that they had materialised before him and the Ministry was at his feet, why could he feel no satisfaction whatsoever? Why was there only hollow pain, as well as blazing anger?

"I have heard of his latest actions," he nodded offhandedly. "I don’t believe the publicity surrounding his exploits is beneficial for the public mood. This being said, I’m sure the Aurors will be able to apprehend him and his followers."

"Professor!" Mr Moore exclaimed with every appearance of shock. "You cannot possibly be saying this! You… you are the one who defeated and destroyed the tyrant Gellert Grindelwald. Surely, this… this new tyrant will be a piece of cake. Please, only you can save us."

This did it. The magic coiled in Albus’s limbs flared, and he did nothing to restrain it. It streamed out of him in palpable waves, scorching to the touch, equal to his anger.

They had learned nothing. Corrupted fools that they were, they would never learn, never earn a shred of redemption in his eyes. None of them deserved mercy, not even this anxious simpleton he had been willing to spare.

The change in his magical aura caused the young man to blanch.

"P-p-professor?"

One icy look sent him shrinking to the back of his seat.

"Have a sherbet lemon, Mr Moore," Albus commanded, never glancing away.

Whether it was his unspoken authority or something else, the youth did not dare refuse. He reached towards the indicated plateful of sweets, popped one in his mouth and promptly choked on it. For a good half-minute, he coughed, purple in the face.

"Y-y-you will help, sir?" he wheezed out at last.

"As I said," came an even reply, "I'm certain the Aurors will soon gain control of the situation. There is no reason to worry. I wish you a good day, Mr Moore."

Stubbornly, the boy opened his mouth to argue some more but stopped in his tracks upon meeting Albus’s stare. He did not speak until reaching the door, where he turned.

"What am I to tell the Minister?"

All the confidence he had exhibited at his arrival had deserted him; more than ever, he now resembled a timid student.

"Madam Jenkins is welcome to discuss the matter with me at her convenience. I’m always at Hogwarts."

Albus considered the young man over the top of his half-moon spectacles, and despite him, his voice softened.

"This is not your battle, Mr Moore."

The boy blinked and nodded, unsure what to answer.

"Thank you for receiving me, sir. Have a nice day."

Once he was gone, Albus heaved a sigh. He almost regretted losing his temper: of all the people he had ever negotiated with, his former student was the least malicious. Nevertheless, his refusal to cooperate constituted a summons, and all that remained to do was wait for the Minister to heed it.

It did not take two days. An owl came the following morning to arrange a visit, and on the pre-agreed date, the Minister for Magic Apparated outside of the school grounds in the company of two assistants, a journalist and a photographer. It was a humble gesture, one of respect, though it also allowed her to be observed by a crowd of curious students as she and Professor McGonagall made their way towards the castle with the remaining Ministry employees in tow.

Eugenia Jenkins was an elegant witch with symmetrical features and greying red hair. There was rare ingenuity in the manner she waved towards the students and shook hands with each member of staff. The official purpose behind her visit was to present the newest safety instructions in the Great Hall and then hold an informal meeting with the teachers, but Albus knew she intended to speak to him alone; only, she had been clever enough to use this opportunity for enhancing her public image. She therefore accepted at once when he proposed retreating to his office once her duties were fulfilled.

It appeared she had been there before, for the glance she gave the circular room was one of recognition. He had not been teaching long when she had started attending Hogwarts.

"You must have come here as a prefect," he surmised. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

"Unbelievable, how many years have flown by," the Minister sighed. "I must say the office hasn’t changed much, though if I’m not mistaken, there weren't quite as many interesting contraptions around during Professor Dippet's time. These, I take it, are your inventions?"

"A few of them are," Albus admitted while they sat down. "By design only, if I’m honest. The ideas have come from better men."

"Modesty is always a good trait to have," the witch smiled. "Of course, students can be the best source of inspiration. Children can teach us so much, even if it’s us, the adults, who are supposed to do the teaching."

"They can indeed," he nodded. "It’s probably what I miss most about teaching."

"Oh, I can imagine. I enjoyed tutoring, you know—it's a standard practice in Hufflepuff to this day; I just asked Professor Sprout about it. Whoever is struggling can leave a request for help in the wooden mailbox inside the common room, and the other students will form a support group. It’s always more fun to study together, and you learn by explaining to someone else. The same way, we enrich ourselves later in life as we help our fellow witches and wizards—not financially, perhaps, but in all the other ways. Special bonds form, a sense of companionship that is more precious than a heap of Galleons: the feeling of belonging, of being accepted and loved and giving as much in return.”

She sighed again. Her speech had exceeded the usual boundaries of small talk, but it was not a coincidence. For all her sincerity, she had mastered the political game well.

"Sadly, not all students are good learners," she went on. "Take Mr Moore, for example. Such an ambitious lad, a true Ravenclaw, yet in his haste to perform, he completely disregards other people’s feelings. You gave him quite a fright, I must say."

Albus nodded his head. "Guilty as charged. I regretted it the moment he left my office. He couldn’t have heeded my feelings even if he had known them."

"He will learn not to blindly demand," the Minister said dismissively. "That is what he did, isn’t it?"

"He tried to plead his case despite being nervous," the wizard assured her. "It is only right that he doesn’t underestimate the gravity of the current situation."

"Nor does the Ministry," she stated. "And you know it, Mr Dumbledore."

She gave him a penetrating look before reverting back to her amiable persona.

"Be that as it may, I am not about to make the same mistake as young Mr Moore. Instead, I want us to have a sincere conversation. We might never have such an opportunity again; trust me, when I am out there, I cannot afford to be simply Eugenia but always Minister Jenkins—a tool that represents our government. As simply Eugenia, however, I’d like to ask for your honest opinion. How far, do you think, this wizard who prides himself on being a Lord plans to go? Do you know what his endgame might possibly be? If my suspicions are correct, the future has nothing good in store for us."

Albus considered her thoughtfully. "I last saw him two years ago in this same office. He claimed he pursued greatness, the kind that comes at all costs, and confessed to having explored the boundaries of magic yet untested. Without ever revealing his true reason for coming here, he asked for the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, though he knew I would refuse. And yet, after he left, Professor Dole contracted a sudden illness that forced him to retire early. His successor only lasted a year, leaving due to unfortunate family events; and our newest colleague has already sustained an injury while performing her duties. It’s as if the post had been jinxed after my refusal to cede it to Lord Voldemort."

"You can't possibly be implying he is fighting for a teaching post," the Minister pressed on. "You knew him as a student. You refused to employ him, knowing young children would be exposed to his influence. What is his ulterior motive? What does he want to do with his influence? As of now, we are not sure whether to negotiate with him or continue to treat him as a terrorist. Something tells me you know the answer."

"As a self-proclaimed Lord, he means to rule," Albus explained. "He jinxed a post he didn't want out of petty malice, exposing a succession of innocent wizards and witches to danger. Instead of pursuing a career through the Ministry, which he could easily have achieved with his brilliant diploma, he chose to recruit vulnerable and ambitious individuals so as to strike unexpectedly and spread chaos. There is no reasoning with him, Eugenia. He wants  _ everything _ . He longs to be the most powerful wizard in the world."

"Then we must protect the children," the witch concluded. "Whatever disagreements you’ve had with my predecessors, you also fear he will mostly target the young minds. That is what terrorists do: they use the innocent as their shield, creating an atmosphere of chaos, fear and mistrust. The werewolf movement was deliberately fabricated, I’m sure of it. And as for the recent news of giants crushing Muggle climbers in the Alps? Never before had giants behaved this aggressively. The desire was always there, yes, but now… now it feels as if someone has given them permission to act on their bloodthirsty urges."

"It would appear he is rallying forces," he agreed. "After the recent pure-blood riots, magical minorities are dissatisfied with their rights, which plays into his hands. With the giants and the werewolves behind him, he is likely to address the goblin population next, though those might be too cautious to join him. I would advise you to take precautions against the Azkaban guards. They are the purest creatures of Darkness."

"If only I were free to do so," Eugenia admitted. "I’ve never liked Dementors; to me, they are a parasitical force. But if I implement too many changes that go against the majority, I won't be Minister for long. My predecessor's sudden death was not an accident; I need to be careful where I thread. Curiously, Orion Black has offered me his support without asking for anything in return. Through him, I have some backing—if questionable—among the traditional Dark families. Yet even so, it all comes down to caution. As long as I make the right decisions, I might salvage something. Otherwise, you will either see me resign or will attend my untimely funeral."

She paused and then drew a breath.

"Politics is a rather dirty business, but it’s a choice I once made. Now I’m here, trying to persuade you to help us, which is why I shall be blunt. What can I do for you, Mr Dumbledore? When you refused to hear out young Mr Moore, you knew I would be coming next. So what can the Ministry do for you? What will it take for you to help us?"

He was not feeling emotional, not the way he had been at Mr Moore's visit. At her words, however, the decades of suffering welled up inside him. Nothing, he realised, would ever erase them.

"Twenty-five years ago, I lent the Ministry my help," he spoke quietly. "Not a day has passed since that I haven't regretted it. I’m not a Ministry employee, yet I could easily find my way around the building, wearing a blindfold. It’s the same within the German Ministry, as well as the Austrian, the Swiss, the French and the Italian ones. This is how often I’ve been to each of them, pleading with the officials to deliver on the promise they had broken."

He leaned forward, his eyes scorchingly sharp.

"I want that promise to be fulfilled, even though the damage can never be undone. I would like you to negotiate decent prison conditions for Gellert Grindelwald. The Silencing Charm that was placed upon him at his imprisonment will be lifted, as will be the magical barrier around him. He will be transferred to a comfortable cell above the ground, furnished with a window and with enough room for sleeping and hygiene. He will be allowed treatment from a qualified Healer, a bath and new robes, and he will be permitted to carefully and gradually pass to a diet of real food, which will be fresh and unspoiled. His guards will be replaced and made to understand that so much as a thought of mistreating him will cost them more than their jobs. Lastly, I will be able to visit him at all times. I insist on these conditions, Eugenia. Once they are fulfilled, I shall endeavour to help you."

There was a short silence before the Minister specified, "We are talking, of course, about  _ the _ Gellert Grindelwald? The one known as the latest tyrant of wizarding Europe? The one whose defeat earned you the status of a war hero and opened the door to becoming the Chief Warlock and the Supreme Mugwump?"

"Yes. The wizard who sacrificed everything to make the world a better place and rid the establishment of corruption, only to be betrayed and led astray by his followers and see his name besmirched. For all his efforts and good intentions, he was chained in a dungeon and prevented from speaking or moving, isolated until his sense of reality blended with hallucination. He can’t even perceive me when I come to see him once a month. I want his torture stopped."

For a while, Eugenia did not answer; she appeared to be deep in thought.

"I have never paid attention to rumours." She was prudent in her wording. "Anything could have happened before my time; I’m not sure what is true and what a mere distortion of a fact could be. From what I’ve heard, Gellert Grindelwald's ideas entailed enslaving the Muggle population and proclaiming wizards’ superiority—much like the agenda of the wizard who currently threatens our safety. At the time of Gellert Grindelwald's defeat, I was a fresh Hogwarts graduate; I still collected Chocolate Frog Cards when yours appeared on the market... What you are telling me is not what I would have expected."

In guise of a response, Albus reached to his left and brought the Pensieve between them. With the end of his wand, he touched his temple to extract two memories, which he tipped into the basin, inviting the Minister to take a look.

The swirling substance rippled, and a face appeared on its surface, one of luminous beauty. The memory came from before the great duel. In it, Gellert was speaking, and his charismatic voice was filled with sadness: he was reflecting on the mistakes he had committed in his pursuit of the Greater Good, expressing a wish that everything had been different and making the decision to embrace self-sacrifice to avoid further bloodshed.

The second recollection was a part of the duel. The blond wizard made for a formidable sight in the midst of magical flames, but a closer look revealed gentleness in his gaze. It was not a duel, not truly; it was a dance, a tender moment.

"This is Gellert Grindelwald," Albus whispered. "This is who he truly is."

The witch glanced up from the Pensieve, her tone soft. "It's been years, Mr Dumbledore. The damage has been done. Even if I succeed, it is too late. Judging by what you have told me of the conditions of his imprisonment, my predecessors designed it so that his mind would break. Not to mention he is bound to suffer from other health ailments."

"I know." He kept his voice steady with sheer force of will. "But I will not let him rot there for the rest of his life. Give him decent conditions. Have him examined by a qualified Healer. Make sure he is treated gently. Those are my terms."

"Well, I cannot go about it in an official manner," the Minister declared, her demeanour now acquiring a business-like quality. "If I were to do that, the press would tear me apart; that young Skeeter woman would make sure of it. Just imagine the headlines:  _ The British Ministry reaches a new point of desperation: the former tyrant of Europe to be allowed lenient imprisonment _ ... No, no, that would be political suicide, Mr Dumbledore; you must know that. But since we are speaking frankly, I promise I’ll help. You will see I always keep my promises—just don't expect immediate results. The bulk of it will have to be achieved through lobbying. My Swiss colleagues will surely be glad to help: the giants killing those poor Muggle tourists have come as a blow—unlike many, the Swiss authorities care as much about Muggle tourism as they do about the wizarding kind. Italians are a wild card: after Matteo d'Angelli's resignation, they still have been unable to form a working coalition, and it could go both ways. The rest are likely to go with the flow."

"I understand it will have to be negotiated in private and kept secret," Albus acquiesced. "I trust you."

He frowned as he contemplated her.

"You truly didn't know. Or you wouldn’t have sent Mr Moore to talk to me." His voice softened. "I have grown so accustomed to being mocked that I expected the same from you both and lashed out, which is unjustifiable. Forgive me."

Eugenia stood up with a genuine smile. Reaching out for one last handshake, she covered the back of his hand with her left one. A new trend imported from American politicians, the gesture signified trust and gave away her Muggle origins.

"You have nothing to apologise for, Mr Dumbledore. It was simple miscommunication, which won’t happen again. I shall keep you posted. It goes without saying that as far as everyone knows, we have been discussing the students’ safety. The portraits, I believe, will keep our real conversation a secret on your orders?"

"The subject of our discussion won’t leave these walls,” he assured her. “Please allow me to escort you downstairs."

While they walked, it occurred to Albus with complete certainty that unlike her Muggle-born precursor, Eugenia would not meet an untimely end; her very decency would protect her. Once Voldemort moved into the open, she would inevitably end up resigning in favour of a harsher, more radical Minister. At last, the government and the Dark pure-blood families would enter a decisive battle, and the witch would be out of danger's way. He would help her stay safe.

Eugenia was as good as her word. Several months went by before her proposal was even considered, but as she told Albus in her regular letters, the first step counted for the most. As soon as she succeeded in swaying the Swiss and the French Ministers in her favour, the others followed suit, all sworn to the strictest secrecy.

A new cell at the topmost floor of Nurmengard was appointed for Gellert in accordance with Albus’s requirements. His old guards were discharged, and a trained Healer was sent to assess and treat the German wizard’s condition. Shortly thereafter, an owl brought a final letter that confirmed Albus was now free to visit the prisoner whenever he so chose.

He barely finished reading it before he rushed out of Hogwarts and Disapparated. He dared not believe his wish had come true; a petrifying fear that something had gone awry was chaining his limbs. He confided his wand to the new security wizards, both of whom appeared markedly more civil than their predecessors, and followed one of them upstairs, scrutinising their dark surroundings. The door to the last cell swung open before them.

A small window let in the evening breeze and revealed the mountains. It was a higher, narrower, airier cell, windy though much less damp than the dungeon. Albus did not linger on those observations. At once, he located Gellert’s thin form near the wall to his right and hurried forward.

The other wizard turned his head towards the noise. This small, nearly imperceptible motion stole Albus’s breath away. For years, Gellert had been unable to stir or even react to his presence. Dropping to his knees, the Englishman attempted to call his name, but his voice came as a broken whisper. He could not believe it. It seemed surreal that this had finally happened.

The prisoner’s features had been ravaged by privation. His sunken eyes, still sapphire in colour, were oddly unfocused. Albus knew his eyesight had severely suffered from the years spent in the dark and that it would take multiple sessions to restore it; the Healer had admitted so. Slowly, as if afraid to spook him, he gave Gellert’s hand a feather-light caress. Although the chain wounds on the latter’s wrists had been healed, those hands remained frail, almost skeletal. But they were Gellert’s hands, and they were sacred. Albus took one of them in both of his, pressing a reverent kiss on the shrunken skin, and the emotions he had been withholding overflowed. He found himself powerless to restrain them. The twenty-five years of pure agony were flashing before his eyes. What had they done to Gellert? Why was there such cruelty in the world?

For a long time, he could not speak, and the German wizard stayed silent, though he never withdrew from the touch. Behind the window, the sky turned dark, and night chill began seeping into the cell. This brought Albus to his senses. He knew what he had to do. With an expression of the tenderest affection, he promised to return the following day, and he was certain this time his lover had heard him.

Fawkes was waiting in his office, surrounded by the sleeping portraits. He already knew what had happened, or perhaps he could sense it. His wisdom never ceased to amaze Albus, who was of the opinion that not only wizards were not the superior magical species but that they were, in fact, near the very bottom of the scale.

“What would I do without you, Fawkes?” he sighed, stroking the bird’s crimson plumage.

The phoenix closed his bead-like eyes, enjoying the caress.

He had saved Albus’s life once. Three years after Ariana’s death, they had found each other, never to part, which often prompted the wizard to wonder what he had done to deserve such a friend.

“It’s true,” he said quietly, “The Minister has kept her word, and Gellert’s conditions have improved. His health will get better, I believe it will—we need to stay confident. They will never break a wizard like him. But he is alone and cold still, and it will take time before some of his strength returns.” He paused, though his fingers continued stroking the bird’s neck. “I love him so much. I’m sure you will like him too when you get to know him. Please, Fawkes. If there is one thing that can comfort him tonight, it is your song. Please, keep him company tonight. Keep him warm.”

The bird gave a soft, reassuring cry. Opening his wings, he vanished in a burst of sparks. For a while, Albus watched the spot where he had disappeared; then, collecting himself, he settled down to write a heartfelt letter of thanks to Eugenia Jenkins.

The next evening saw him back at Nurmengard. Now that the restriction for his visits had been lifted, he could not bear to stay away from Gellert for any length of time. Knowing healing  _ would  _ take time and patience, he did not expect his lover to speak or acknowledge him, not this early; but the latter surprised him yet again by his strength of mind. 

He was sitting under the blanket, gazing at the window. When Albus approached with a fond greeting, their hands sought each other and joined.

"Albus..."

The word was a soft murmur. Nothing had outwardly changed, yet a flicker of emotion had shown in the sapphire eyes. The English wizard knew then it was not a dream; the voice he loved had spoken again for the first time in ages.

"Gellert," he breathed, light-headed with joy. "Oh, Gellert..."

"You've been here… before…"

"Yes." He was close to laughter, though his eyes were glistening. "Yes, my love, I came to see you yesterday. Before, I used to visit you. I would never leave you."

He covered the frail hands with kisses, and while nothing else was said that evening, it felt as if something had been released.

With every new meeting, they talked more, but it was not until the following week that they held a longer conversation. Fawkes had come along of his own accord, nestling near Gellert, to whom, as Albus had foreseen, he had taken a liking.

“I brought you a new piece of phoenix flint.” The English wizard produced a pale red gemstone. “As long as you keep it on you, you will never feel cold. Did you find the blue one?”

"I saw it. That is how I know I wasn’t imagining you. Because sometimes I do see what isn’t there, I think. It’s like an azimuth. Always out of reach."

Gellert was silent for a moment, contemplating the scarlet bird. The first phoenix he had ever seen had been in the form of Albus’s Patronus. He had felt happy then. 

"What happened, Albus?"

The other wizard took a few seconds to gather his thoughts.

"Years ago, we spared the Gaunts. You then expressed the hope that they would never have heirs, and you were right, Gellert. Though in a way, I'm glad they did. The wizard who now strives to take over control of magical Britain is their last living descendant: Tom Marvolo Riddle, the son of a Muggle father and Marvolo Gaunt's grandson. These days, he prefers to be known as Lord Voldemort—a name he means for everyone to fear. He is exceptionally powerful, possibly one of the most dangerous wizards alive, yet there is so much he is ignorant of. Orphan from his earliest childhood, and one who always possessed a disposition for stealth and intimidation, he seeks absolute power. Maybe even more than that. He used to be a good-looking boy; now, his features have become distorted, and his eyes are an unnatural red. I suspect he might be dabbling in Necromancy. If only I knew which kind…"

After a brief pause, he went on.

"The traditional Dark families follow him. The trend has been there for a while, you see, but few had noticed it until recently: pure-bloods are dying out. Their radicalism, their aggression, those are the symptoms of imminent extinction. Future will belong to half-bloods and Muggle-borns. And then there is the question of Muggles themselves: since the days of our youth, their progress has been... unimaginable. Their numbers have expanded, and their technologies keep evolving; what is more, experts in Muggle Studies predict this is only the beginning. They say the Statute of Secrecy might soon become impossible to maintain." He gently squeezed Gellert's hand. "Before it happens, pure-bloods will launch one last attack under Tom’s banner. In the long run, they cannot win, but they will fight ruthlessly for survival. I have been doing everything in my power to spur that confrontation, namely by advocating Muggles’ rights. Whenever Tom and I came face to face, I would goad him into action. If everything goes as intended... the corrupted government and the pure-blood radicals will destroy each other. They are the main obstacles to your vision. When they are removed from ruling positions, a fair system can finally be established. Nothing is lost, Gellert."

The wind was howling while he spoke. He was no longer the same Albus Dumbledore Gellert had once known. This, perhaps, was what caused the latter to frown, his mysterious eyes—the only feature that had not changed through the years of his imprisonment—filling with confusion and regret.

_ Nothing is lost _ , Albus had asserted. Yet it was far from the truth. Whatever the future brought, neither of them would live to see it. There was no need to say it aloud.

"Wei?" he asked in a raspy voice, referring to his last loyal follower, Li Wei.

"He died a few years ago."

Albus could feel sadness and grief descend upon his lover—grief for the lives lost for the cause, for his failure to prevent the very events that had come to be, for the suffering they both had endured—and put his arms around him in a protective embrace. His heart was bleeding to witness such anguish.

_ Burn the Ministry to the ground, Tom. Flatten it. I won’t stop you. _

But then, something shifted in the air. It was subtle, ever so subtle, yet it was there. Uncertain, he studied the other wizard’s expression, hardly daring to probe his emotions. Fawkes lifted his head and made a shrugging motion, as if to dispel what he, too, had undoubtedly perceived.

Gellert's eyes had focused again. An echo of power pulsed in his aura.

"Make them pay, Albus," came a firm request.

"I promise," Albus whispered.

He returned to Hogwarts with his mind solidified on an idea. It was time to honour his word to Eugenia Jenkins and set to work.

Quills danced on parchment all night long. Owls flew out of his window at regular intervals, and several were swift enough to bring answers, all of which were affirmative.

At dawn, he received a different visitor. Wide awake despite his exhaustion, his gaze fixed on the school grounds, he heard the fire in the hearth erupt in a manner characteristic of the Floo Network. The footsteps were intimately familiar, though he rarely met their owner.

For a very long time, he and Aberforth had been unable to tolerate even the sight of each other. If they conversed, it was to come to the same, predictable dead end. This visit, however, was not altogether unexpected.

"You won’t even turn around?" a gruff voice enquired. "Is it too difficult a task for the greatest wizard of our time?"

Albus obliged. Stringy grey beard reached Aberforth's chest; his blue eyes were piercing behind his spectacles. They had never looked more alike.

Without further ado, his brother produced the letter Albus had sent him during the night.

"I received your invitation. Care to tell me what it’s about? Or is it one of your master plans _for the_ _Greater Good_?"

"The Order of the Phoenix is meant to be a secret group of wizards and witches who wish to fight Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters," Albus explained evenly. "As of now, it includes Elphias, Alastor Moody, Dedalus Diggle, Emmeline Vance and Hagrid. I’m expecting more responses today."

Aberforth narrowed his eyes.

"Fight this Lord, you say. Why now? He has been around for a while—dodging the attention of great Albus Dumbledore, curiously enough.” He sneered before his tone darkened. “I know you, brother"—the last word resembled a curse—"you never did anything for anyone: not the chores when mother begged you for help, not even Ariana's supper until absolutely forced to. All you ever cared about were those dusty parchments of yours, the footnote with your name in  _ Transfiguration Today _ and that German bastard who murdered our sister."

Albus twitched, as if pricked by a needle. His voice hardened as well.

"Your Killing Curse is what killed her. After you nearly choked me to death. If it  _ weren't _ for Gellert, you would be in Azkaban."

The younger brother’s fists clenched in fury.

"I TOLD YOU TO STAY AWAY FROM THAT BASTARD! What happened is your fault!"

It was clear that however many years had passed, he remained severely affected by Ariana’s death. And yet, not once would he admit to participating in the entire tragedy. There was no point in reasoning with him.

He himself must have realised their talk was about to end as all their talks did, for he abruptly changed the subject.

"You didn't answer my question. Why this Order business, all of a sudden? That Lord has been terrorizing wizarding Britain for a while—taking up the mantle of that murdering bastard you protect so much—and you never cared."

“For Gellert. Think of me what you will, but he cares, he always has. If you don’t wish to join the Order, I will not force you.”

They stared at each other, their hostility tangible.

"And what will that Order of yours do?"

"Fight fire with fire. Lord Voldemort attacks from the shadows. I will do the same."

"I will join your Order," Aberforth declared curtly. "Not for you. I don't care for the dirty games you play these days. Ari would have been disappointed to see what you’ve become. You are no longer a brother of ours. It is for  _ her _ sake I’m doing it."

With this, he threw Albus’s letter in his face and left the office.

It was fortunate their meetings were so scarce: each of them seemed to open anew a wound that never healed. Crumpling the parchment, Albus settled at his desk to resume the task at hand. He knew neither he nor Gellert nor Aberforth would ever recover or move on; their lives had effectively been cursed the day Ariana had died. 

* * *

The hill was isolated, an island in a vast and bare landscape. The sparse silhouettes of the trees swayed in the wind. Nothing else moved except for the shape of a young man, whose hair and cloak almost blended with the night. His breaths came in puffs of vapour, though for his preoccupation, he did not appear to perceive the cold.

Suddenly, dazzling white light burst from thin air. A most peculiar lightning bolt, it never drowned out the rustling of the wind, and yet, its power knocked the young man to his feet, ripping the wand from his hands. Where, seconds ago, there had been nothing, now towered a wizard with long white hair and beard, his features stark in the glow of a single  _ Lumos _ . 

“Don’t kill me!”

Albus contemplated his summoner. He could see the Death Eater had barely left his teenagehood behind, though his eyes were already inscrutable like the waters of a moonlit lake. From Horace, he had heard of the boy as a quietly talented student, if a brooder, but this was all. Ever since he had become headmaster, his immediate contact with Hogwarts students had ceased; he could no longer come to know them as closely as he once had. It was a heavy price to pay for power. 

When he had received young Snape’s letter, he had assumed their meeting would pertain to the prophecy the latter had overhead and relayed, no doubt, to his master. Any negotiation that was to follow between him and Voldemort would be to his advantage. 

For ten years, he had succeeded in manoeuvring through the upheavals, maintaining the illusion of helping the Ministry without truly involving the Order of the Phoenix. Carefully, he had assigned minor tasks to its members to occupy them. He spent all of his free moments at Nurmengard. With the Healer’s help, Gellert had grown stronger, and together, he and Albus would discuss the events in the wizarding world. 

“In a game of chess, one sacrifices the pawns, never the king,” his beloved had commented one evening. “I broke that rule. Don’t make the same mistake.”

Albus had taken his words to heart, attempting however to keep all those under his protection safe and sound. Halfway through the decade, Eugenia Jenkins had retired from public life after being driven out of her post. She had, to Albus’s pleasure, found contentment and security as a caretaker of magical beasts while her successor fruitlessly fought against Voldemort’s rise. The war appeared to be nearing its climax: the pure-blood elitists and the equally unscrupulous government had never battled more fiercely. Everything seemed to go according to plan—thanks to Gellert, Albus had even come to suspect the nature of Voldemort’s experiments in Dark magic. But then, when the situation could not become any more favourable, it had spiralled out of control at lightning speed. 

A member of the Order had been murdered on his mission. And then another, and another. Caradoc Dearborn, Marlene McKinnon, Benjy Fenwick, Dorcas Meadowes, Fabian and Gideon Prewett, Edgar Bones and his family: all had been ambushed and killed with ruthless precision. Each of his precautions had been coming to naught, as though the Death Eaters knew exactly where to strike. There was a spy in the Order, a witch or a wizard secretly working for Voldemort—perhaps even more than one. Albus no longer knew whom to trust. Despite his best efforts, the traitors remained elusive, and now that Trelawney’s prophecy had reached Voldemort, it was a matter of days before the Potters and the Longbottoms found themselves the targets of his retribution. Whatever message the Dark wizard had sent him, Albus was intent on using it to gain the upper hand. He was not alone. 

Yet Snape’s declaration proved him wrong. Anxious, wild-eyed, the young man was stumbling upon his words. 

“I—I come with a warning—no, a request—please—”

Casting the Soundproof Charm around them, Albus listened with a frown. It was not what he had expected. In truth, he would not have been surprised to find out the boy was an accomplished actor, dispatched to mine for information on the Potters or plant false intelligence. 

Furtively, he resorted to Legilimency and entered the Death Eater’s mind, only to encounter a solid mental barrier. The young man with unreadable eyes was a natural Occlumens, determined to reveal his inner thoughts and beliefs to no one. But for all of this, he claimed to love. 

“If she means so much to you, surely Lord Voldemort will spare her?” he enquired in response to the news. “Could you not ask for mercy for the mother, in exchange for the son?”

The question was a test, and Snape failed it on the spot. 

“I have—I have asked him—”

Anger flamed in Albus’s chest. His first instinct had not been incorrect after all. Maybe the Death Eater was acting on his own behalf and without his master’s knowledge; still, he was but another selfish man who mistook lust for love. Another one of those who sought to possess, never realising love involved self-sacrifice, the gift of oneself and supreme respect. After everything that had happened, Albus could not stand such self-absorption. It was individuals like this who had torn his lover apart, pushing him towards the path of darkness, only to betray him when he could no longer fulfil their wishes. 

The boy shrank away from his disdain. Far too late did he attempt to salvage his request, though he did so regardless. 

“Hide them all, then. Keep her—them—safe. Please.”

He would do anything in return, he professed. And with some effort, Albus set his misgivings aside. Young wizards and witches had died, following his orders. More were about to die unless he acted at once. Having an ally in Voldemort’s inner circle—particularly an ally proficient in Occlumency—would be a blessing. The risk was immense, for he doubted the young man’s sincerity and would never know for certain where his loyalties lay; but if he were to protect the Potters, he had to take it. 

“Does Lord Voldemort trust you?”

A fraction of Snape’s agitation eased at this unspoken agreement, though he never paused in wringing his hands. 

“As much as he trusts anybody. I mean—he keeps me close—he taught me on occasions. But he doesn’t put his faith in anyone—not really.”

It was a clever answer, free of the self-delusion that was proper to many acolytes. Albus scrutinised the boy’s features. 

“Can you tell me of his other followers?”

Lowering his eyes, the young man drew a shaky breath, then looked up again. 

“I can tell about the ones I—I have met. Some, I have never seen. Some, I have only seen with the masks on. He—the Dark Lord—has never revealed how far his influence goes.” He met Albus’s gaze. “Will you do it—protect them?”

“Yes,” the older wizard promised, and he held out his hand. “Come with me, Severus.”

The boy swallowed but took it without a word. They Disapparated, leaving the barren countryside behind. 

Snape’s testimony did not shed light on the traitor’s identity. Whether it was due to Voldemort’s caution in concealing his followers from each other or deliberate deception on the young man’s part, Albus could not be sure; he did, however, what the latter had asked of him. The Fidelius Charm was the most reliable way of hiding a location, and the Potters readily agreed to it, opting for Sirius Black to be their Secret Keeper. Albus felt confident in their choice. 

If he were honest with himself, it was not without an inner struggle that he had admitted Sirius into the Order in the first place. With his charisma, casual elegance and witty humour, Sirius strongly reminded him of Gellert. At times, the resemblance was almost painful to witness. The Gellerts of the world were rare, exceptional men, and if Albus had learned something in the course of his life, it was the fact that they were their own greatest enemies. He had failed to save his lover from himself; he wished he could rescue at least this young man, whose teenagehood alone had been riddled with conflicts. Yet he could not deny him the right to participate in the war, especially when his closest friends needed him. In fact, he was convinced their secret was safest in Sirius’s hands. 

October came to a close. The Hallowe’en feast at Hogwarts felt subdued, compared to the previous years. Once the students retired to their dormitories, Albus ascended to his office to find Fawkes asleep, his beak tucked in his feathers. He decided to spend what remained of the evening examining the Cloak of Invisibility James had lent him at their last meeting. 

Light and silvery like a trickle of water, the fabric slipped between his fingers, gentler than silk. Centuries old it was, and yet, the magic woven into its strands had rendered it resistant to time and wear; there was not an imperfection on its surface. Albus sighed, striving to keep his memories at bay. There had been a time when Gellert would have given anything to have the Cloak, along with the other two Hallows: an ultimate defence against death. Even though they had ended up renouncing this dream, Albus wanted to show him this magical object nonetheless before he returned it to the Potters. It had been the best concealed Hallow of all, one that Gellert had never laid his eyes on. 

A hissing noise brought him out of his reminiscence. The fireplace glowed green, and a single sheet of parchment flew out of the smoke. He recognised Bathilda Bagshot’s curly handwriting. 

_ Albus, I saw a tall, hooded figure pass my window a moment ago. A series of impacts just came from down the street, and I’m certain it wasn’t my imagination. It should be checked: with the Potters in hiding, I don’t trust the strangers who come here uninvited. B.  _

A few seconds passed before the wizard lowered the note. His mind maintained that what the message implied could not possibly be; yet on a deeper, unfathomable level, he knew there was no other explanation. He lifted the Cloak of Invisibility in his hands. Fawkes had awoken, and they looked at each other, their eyes alert. 

“We need to go to Godric’s Hollow,” Albus whispered. “I fear the worst has happened.”

The phoenix flew forth to perch himself on his arm, and they vanished under the Cloak’s protection. 

The darkness was dense. No Muggles ventured towards the wizarding lanes, which were invisible to them; even the magical folk were staying out of sight. If they had heard the disturbance, they were too frightened to investigate: such was the terror Voldemort’s followers inspired. 

Over the metal fence, Albus peered at the Potters’ cottage, and leaden weight settled within him. An entire side of the first floor had been destroyed by what could only be the force of a curse. The gate to the garden was wide open; feeling Fawkes’s reassuring grip, he entered. 

How could it have occurred? How had Voldemort defeated the most impregnable of spells? Had an unforeseen obstacle prevented the Potters from finalising the enchantment after all? Had Sirius been kidnapped and forced into revealing their secret? 

This swarm of forbidding thoughts stilled almost at once. James Potter was there, lifeless on the hallway floor. Barely in his early twenties, he still wore an expression of fearful determination. Albus removed the Cloak and gazed into the young features, his heart filled with the deepest guilt and regret. This was when he heard it: the sound of a small, distressed voice. A baby was crying in the house. With one swoop of his wings, Fawkes soared into the air and flew upstairs, towards the source of the noise. The wizard followed, his wand clutched in his hand. 

Wind was swishing in the child’s room, which had been exposed to the night. Three of its walls were missing, and the ground was covered with debris where the roof had caved in. Lily Potter lay in front of the cot, arms spread on either side of her, red hair moving slightly in the chilly air. Her very silhouette suggested she had been shielding her son from the attacker when the Killing Curse had struck her. As Albus stepped forward, his throat dry, a part of him sensed what had transpired, what sort of magic had taken place within the ruins of the house, though he could not yet formulate it. 

The baby had survived; he was wailing with pain and fear, swinging his tiny limbs, yet he was alive and strong. There was but one vestige of the Dark magic perpetrated against him, and it bore the form of the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead. 

Silently, the Elder Wand flicked, and translucent sparks rained over the child, distracting him. While he attempted to catch them in his little fists, the wand traced a pattern in mid-air. A wordless incantation, and the baby’s breathing calmed, the green eyes closing in peaceful sleep. 

Albus glanced up at Fawkes, who had alighted on one side of the cot. He wondered whether phoenix tears had the power to heal wounds of such nature—a remnant of the most sinister of spells. Even as he concluded it was highly likely, he knew better than to put this theory into practice. Instead, he inspected the rubble in the room and cast a number of spells to verify no one else was present, alive or otherwise. They were, truly, alone: Lord Voldemort was gone. 

A lifetime ago, in the days of his childhood, Albus had heard his mother mention the story of a sacrifice made for love, which he, in turn, had relayed to Gellert. A man had found himself cornered by a group of Dark wizards, and his death seemed certain when all of a sudden, his eldest son had thrown himself in front of him to take the Killing Curse in his stead. The instant he had fallen to the ground, something unheard of had happened: all the subsequent curses had rebounded upon the Dark wizards, as though powerful protection had been placed around the father. It was ancient, transcendent magic, where Light and Darkness blended into one. It was the same magic Lily had invoked, perhaps unintentionally, when she had died in her son’s place. Except where Voldemort’s body ought to be, there was nothing: the blast of the explosion had as good as annihilated his remains. At least, so it appeared. 

“‘Dual in nature yet opposites of each other.’  _ Secrets of the Darkest Art _ , chapter seventeen.”

Those had been Gellert’s words when Albus had shown him his memories of Tom Riddle, whose appearance had steeply been deteriorating with the passing years. A brief consultation of the indicated book had shed light onto the mystery: there was a branch of Necromancy that could ensure immortality if a part of a wizard’s soul was deposited into an object. Apart from rendering one’s magical core unstable, though, the Horcrux posed an ultimate danger to its creator: the piece of the soul inside it could take a life of its own, independent from the wizard it belonged to. The stronger it grew, the higher was the chance it would acquire a solid form, resulting in a double of the living wizard. And still, for all their resemblance, the Horcrux was nothing if not the opposite of a human being. 

That Voldemort had resorted to this measure, Albus did not doubt; he trusted Gellert’s judgment, and he could see the evidence of this Darkest Art in the baby’s scar. When the Killing Curse had rebounded, Voldemort had lost his physical body but had not died. Most likely was he, at this very moment, on the run, seeking to recover his strength. If— _ when _ —he succeeded in securing another body, he would return to pursue his efforts to seize the power. But first and foremost, he would seek to kill the boy who had proven to be his downfall. 

Straightening up, Albus observed the orphaned baby. Come the morning, the news would spread, and so would the child’s fame. Surviving Voldemort’s deadly curse was unprecedented; witches and wizards would extol him as their saviour, as they had once so callously exalted Albus for an action that had ruined his life. Not only would Harry become a public mascot, he would also present a tempting target to the ambitious. If given an opportunity, one of the pure-blood families would snatch and raise him, using his name as a shield in their struggle for survival. The Ministry, he knew, would eagerly do the same. And all the while, the child would live in constant danger, bound to Voldemort with a cursed scar. 

It was crucial to ensure Harry’s safety and prevent either political side from exploiting his fame to their advantage. Voldemort’s fleeting disappearance changed nothing in Albus’s determination to achieve Gellert’s dream. Granted, he had not counted on this turn of events, but even without their leader, the traditional Dark families remained a threat. Since Voldemort embodied the pure-bloods’ ideology, it was only natural that Harry should personify the polar opposite: not the Ministry’s rotten idea of justice, but Gellert’s vision of equality. 

“Will you watch over him, Fawkes?” Albus whispered. With a wave of his wand, a bubble of magic formed around the baby to shelter him from the cold and harm; it would burst at the touch of a friend. “I will be sending someone to take him away very shortly.”

The phoenix blinked in assent, and the wizard left the house. He had only yards to walk before reaching Bathilda Baghot’s dwelling, which stood opposite his desolate childhood home. 

The silver-haired witch held out her hand in silent greeting, and he approached to kiss her on the cheek. She was thin and frail with age, but there was vigour within her that nothing could extinguish. 

“Albus, dear, what happened? I had an ominous feeling when I saw the cloaked figure; it had no business being here. Did you find out where the impacts had come from?”

Her keen eyes took in his sombre expression and seemed to grasp the truth before he had even spoken. 

“It was  _ him _ , Bathilda. He found them. James and Lily…”

His voice trailed away, but his meaning was clear. She gasped and pressed a hand against her mouth; her free hand clasped his own. 

“Oh, Merlin… How could it happen? Weren’t they supposed to be safe under those Concealment Charms?”

“I believed them safe,” he confessed heavily. “But they were betrayed. Someone knew and gave them away.”

He did not mention Sirius’s name. It was a matter he would be examining as soon as Harry was brought to safety; even now, he was prepared to stake his life on Sirius’s innocence. 

“I see.” Bathilda shook her head, and her voice lost its warmth, turning harsh. “Merlin knows I tried to warn James. I knew, I  _ knew  _ that wife of his was trouble; simpleton that she was, she must have revealed their location to every passer-by. Not that he was any better, mind you. Didn’t I warn him time and again of the dangers of associating with a half-Muggle and a werewolf? But why would anyone listen to wise advice?”

“Their son has survived,” Albus objected. “Little Harry lives. The Killing Curse left but a scar on his forehead.”

The unexpected news caused her to frown in puzzlement. 

“How is this possible?” 

He explained the magical protection Lily’s sacrifice had conferred on her son, as well as his conviction that Voldemort’s experiments in the Dark Arts would eventually allow him to return. Her frown deepened. 

“What are you going to do?”

“I will have to notify the Ministry. A funeral must be arranged for James and Lily while Harry will require a new home. It is imperative that he be granted the most potent protection there is. This, however, is a task I cannot trust the authorities to perform.” 

Albus paused, wishing he were not pressed for time and could therefore consult Gellert. 

“The safest course of action, I believe, would be to extend Lily’s counter-charm. There is magic to this effect, blood magic that I have to research but which is more effective than anything else I can think of. As long as Harry is raised away from the buzz of the wizarding world, he ought to be out of the Death Eaters’ reach.” 

He halted once again, his thoughts in a whirl, and then met the witch’s gaze. 

“Bathilda, could I ask you for a favour? Would you please let Harry stay here for a day? Only for as long as it takes to complete the arrangement.”

“Stay here?” Bathilda’s tone had become even more grating. She tilted her head to one side, her eyes lit with a shrewd glint. “What new scheme is this, Albus?”

Not for the first time, he experienced a sensation appropriate for a mischievous child interrogated by his mother. Both he and the witch were aware his intentions were more complex than he would admit, yet their affection for each other was stronger than any disagreement. 

“I have to keep Harry from harm,” he asserted. “If the Ministry or some of Voldemort’s sympathisers should lay their hands on him, they would use him for their goals, regardless of his well-being.”

“And you won’t use him?” she countered, her eyebrows raised. “You and my good-for-nothing great-nephew. Do you really think I can’t recognise his hand in your dealings?”

There was a biting edge to her words, and even more so to what she had left unsaid. It was as though she had divined Albus spent all of his leisure with Gellert, planning with him, sharing everything with him. He knew better than to offer her a direct answer. 

“If I had a sounder idea, I would resort to it,” he assured her instead. “I’m certain this is the best option for Harry, for his security. Even with Lord Voldemort gone, public unrest will take a while to settle down. We cannot take any chances.”

She said nothing, prompting him to continue. 

“Of course, I wouldn’t ask you to look after the baby on your own. I would send someone from the Order to assist you.”

“Whom?” came a sharp enquiry. 

Albus considered this. 

“Hagrid,” he decided at last. 

Already displeased with the proposal, Bathilda positively grimaced at his reply. Having always been a pure-blood supremacist in her own right, she no more approved of Hagrid than she had of Lily Potter. 

“Hagrid. The half-giant. Wonderful, Albus—I wonder what I’ll hear next.”

“The Order has been infiltrated,” he said earnestly. “Hagrid is one of the very few members I can trust completely. He would never hurt the Potters’ son.”

This did little to assuage her discontent, though she could not bring herself to turn down his request. Not because of any authority he wielded these days, but due to the fondness she had conceived for him long ago. Their plan finalised, she testily allowed him to kiss her cheek again, and as he turned to leave, he heard her cast a spell to move her china out of sight. 

Without further delay, Albus Apparated outside of Hogwarts grounds and reached Hagrid’s hut in minutes. The gamekeeper was devastated to hear of James and Lily’s demise and more than willing to collect Harry from the ruins of their house. With precise instructions that he should wait out the following day at Bathilda’s, Albus enchanted a tin mug to serve as a Portkey, which transported Hagrid straight to Godric’s Hollow. 

After this, he proceeded to a search he anticipated with an equal measure of impatience and foreboding. He knew where Sirius lived, and he had to be certain of the facts. But upon his arrival, he found the flat empty; what was more, there was no sign of a forced entry nor any manner of a struggle. It was extremely unsettling. And yet… Sirius could not have betrayed his friends. He could not. 

Joined by Fawkes, who had appeared by his side to signify Harry had been rescued, Albus could see no alternative besides going back to his office, from whence he sent a message in the form of a Patronus. In vain did he wait for a word from Sirius. It hardly helped to dispatch similar communications to the young wizard’s remaining friends since Remus Lupin’s response was bewildered—he had not seen Sirius recently—while Peter Pettigrew did not answer. 

Despite his alarm, Albus felt compelled to concentrate on the gravest matter at hand. His private library contained a number of very old books, and he spent several hours poring over them before a full picture came together. There was an old charm based on the bond of blood that could provide powerful magical defence. At its core, Lily’s sacrifice was the Lightest and mildest form of Necromancy, for although it defied death and involved the three objects necessary for any ritual of resurrection—the weapon, the belongings of the revenant and the victim—it was performed out of pure love and not for personal gain. This unique brand of magic was apt to be amplified with the willing participation of one of the victim’s blood relatives. If cast successfully, the charm would grant Harry protection for the entire duration of his boyhood, so that neither Voldemort nor his henchmen would be able to hurt him for as long as he resided in the said relative’s home. 

The wizard’s fingers glided over the lengthy, complicated incantation. Dawn was breaking, and his course of action was now clear to him. He would inform the Ministry of Voldemort’s downfall, track down the details of Lily’s Muggle family and arrange the latter’s guardianship over Harry. Millicent Bagnold, the Minister for Magic, was a novice at her post; he foresaw no hindrance from her side. But before he set out on his way, one more action remained to be carried out. He had failed at his promise, and it was his duty, and his alone, to break the news. 

Another phoenix made of pure light soared out of the window. Not two minutes later, his fireplace glowed green, and Severus Snape stepped out of the ashes, pale, startled, his black eyes questioning. 

“Forgive me, Severus,” Albus spoke, aware that no preamble could soften the blow. “I have to be the bearer of the saddest tidings.”

What little colour had been in the young man’s cheeks faded. 

“What… happened?”

“In spite of our precautions, Lord Voldemort penetrated the Potters’ hiding place. Lily died protecting her son, as did James. By virtue of their sacrifice, the boy has survived while Voldemort’s power has been destroyed. I’m very, very sorry, Severus.”

For a few seconds, Snape stared at him with wide eyes. Then a violent tremor shook him, and he turned away, pressing a fist against his lips. Not even this motion stopped his cry of anguish. 

Albus advanced to pull him into a firm embrace, which caused the young man’s emotion to break loose. He sobbed into the older wizard’s shoulder, all restraint gone, and Albus held him, blinking moisture from his own eyes. He did not speak, for no words could do justice to the enormity of such torment—torment he had known for decades. There was no greater pain than witnessing one’s loved one suffer and being responsible for it, however involuntarily. He, Albus, was the reason his sister had died, that his brother lived with trauma and that his lover had endured a thousand hardships; were it not for him, Gellert would not have been as good as buried alive in a dark and dismal place that was eating away at his health and sanity. Nothing Albus had done since—not even ensuring an improvement of those conditions—could erase it. He would bear his guilt for the rest of his wretched life, and he felt he deserved every ounce of it. But Snape’s pain was only beginning. He would never see Lily again or beg for her forgiveness. 

For the first time, Albus wondered whether he had misjudged the Death Eater. Were Snape’s feelings genuine after all? Were the two of them more similar than he realised? And if so, could his instincts have lied about Sirius as well, blinded by the latter’s resemblance to the wizard he loved? He no longer knew. The boundaries between his intuition and self-delusion, between knowledge and imagination, had blurred. Who had betrayed him? Whom should he trust? He now understood how Gellert must have felt by the end of his unsuccessful campaign, when his followers had started plotting against him. 

Only one point was undeniable: he had to help this hurting young man. Putting a comforting hand on his shoulder, Albus guided him towards his own seat. Little by little, Snape mastered his breathing enough to speak. 

“I thought… you were going… to keep her… safe…”

“She and James put their faith in the wrong person. Rather like you, Severus.”

The headmaster sighed. He did not like adopting this hard, authoritative tone under the circumstances, but it was necessary if he were to give the boy a new focus. There was no room for indulging in sorrow when Harry’s safety was at stake. Later, maybe in a few years, Severus might come across the Mirror of Erised, and its illusory vision of happiness would bring him peace instead of sadness. That time had not yet come. 

He constructed his arguments cautiously, steering the young man away from his dark thoughts towards what needed to be done. In the end, this proved easier than he had imagined. It disturbed him to hear how little Snape was interested in Lily’s son and how strongly he insisted on keeping his feelings a secret, as though love were something to be ashamed of. Nevertheless, Albus acquiesced and, leaving Snape in Madam Pomfrey’s care, departed for the Ministry. 

This part of his strategy could not have gone more smoothly. The officials were far too overjoyed by the news to oppose his proposal of having Harry adopted by his mother’s Muggle family members, whose names and location he obtained after a brief search. All they did was ask for his assistance in identifying a number of Death Eaters, and he stayed behind to this effect. By the time he exited the building, it was afternoon, and wizards and witches were out in the streets, celebrating without the slightest attempt at concealment. Even Godric’s Hollow’s central square was lively, the clear blue sky of the village crossed by an unparalleled number of owls. But the atmosphere in Bathilda’s home was far from cheerful. 

The baby was asleep, rocked in Hagrid’s large hands while the witch looked on with an expression that threatened to incinerate the gamekeeper where he sat. Two of her chairs were bent out of shape, and the table was already sagging under Hagrid’s massive elbow. Albus hastened to mend the furniture and complete the arrangement before her temper gave way. Under their attentive eyes, he performed the bond of blood charm, exactly as the books dictated, and though it was impossible to test the spell’s effects, he could feel the warm tingle of magic spreading around Harry, who had woken up and was watching him with solemn green eyes. All that now remained to do was seal the charm: a role reserved for Lily’s sister. As such, an explanatory letter to Petunia Dursley was in order. 

It was past midnight when Albus returned to Hogwarts. After making certain Harry had been taken to his new home, he had encouraged Hagrid and Minerva McGonagall—whose appearance at Little Whinging and knowledge of Lily’s family had taken him quite by surprise—to join the celebrations. He himself was too shaken to do anything but seek the quiet of his office. Gellert’s company was what he craved most, but it was best to postpone the visit until morning; he did not want to rouse the German wizard from his sleep. 

A single remark of Hagrid’s had shattered his composure. Sirius had not been captured by the enemy, as Albus had at first assumed. On the contrary, he had arrived at the Potters’ house at the same time as the gamekeeper, insisting that he be entrusted with the baby. He had even given away his motorbike, only to disappear once more. And yet, he had ignored his headmaster’s repeated summons all day long. Peter Pettigrew, meanwhile, had practically vanished overnight. All of these considerations gave Albus the impression of having a shard of glass embedded in his chest. He could not believe Sirius to be a traitor, could not accept it, no matter the evidence. Was he a senile fool whose wit had finally wilted? 

Music reached him from downstairs. Unless he was mistaken, it was Horace Slughorn’s favourite tune. Intrigued, he made his way to the dungeons and peered into the Potions Master’s open office, where he glimpsed his colleague packing his possessions into enormous trunks. The notion was nearly humorous: during the entire war, Horace would not stray from the school grounds unless it was to walk to Hogsmeade; now, mere hours after Voldemort’s downfall, he was retiring. 

“Albus!” Slughorn exclaimed, muting the music with a wave of his wand. “What a day! You have been busy, I hear. What has become of the Boy Who Lived?”

“Oh, Harry Potter is to be raised by his closest relatives.” Albus struggled to maintain an unruffled façade. “They are Muggles.” 

“Muggles? Hmm… A prudent measure, I suppose. But then again…” 

After a brief reflection, Horace shrugged, and another flick of his wand sent a mantel clock zooming into a box. 

“Have you decided to leave then?” Albus enquired. 

“Oh, yes, it’s time, I’m afraid. I was going to hand you my resignation in the morning. Of course, I’ll stay for as long as it takes to find a new Potions Master.” Slughorn’s smirk was full of mirth—the news had put him in an extremely cheerful mood. “I wouldn’t hope for a brilliant replacement, but if you are lucky, a passable one might come along.”

“What do you think of Severus Snape?”

The grin dissipated as swiftly as it had come, replaced by an incredulous, almost frightened look. 

“Severus? I thought he… Isn’t he…”

“He has switched sides; he now works for the Order.”

There was a brief silence while Horace studied the headmaster. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped close to a whisper. 

“Are you sure you know what you are doing?”

Albus wanted to nod but found he could not. 

“Everything I do is a gamble,” he breathed. “After last night’s events… I feel lost. It is as if—”

The sentence was left unfinished, but he had at last formulated the thought that haunted him. It was as if he were repeating Gellert’s fate. At first, everything had seemed obvious, righteous, easily fulfilled. Now… young people had died for him, proving the consequences of his actions could never be prevented. He knew not how best to achieve his and Gellert’s goals and had yet to learn where he had made mistakes or why he had been betrayed. Was his own downfall months or even days away?

His display of candour earned him a frown. Slughorn reached for a dressing robe to fold, musing over the statement. 

“Well… Severus is competent, no doubt. I can’t say I ever expected him to teach, but stranger things happen at sea.” He paused and then, despite himself, met the other wizard’s gaze. “Did you get the Ministry to grant your wish?”

Albus nodded. 

“I’m glad. Your speech patterns… I noticed it a while ago: you started expressing yourself in an elliptical fashion. Not always, but often enough. I reckoned it couldn’t be a coincidence.”

A reluctant smile lit the headmaster’s features. Figurative language was a trait of Gellert’s, and like everything else about his lover, Albus cherished it. He was not conscious of having adopted the same habit; it was true, however, that they had reached an age and a level of closeness where they scarcely needed an abundance of words to understand each other. 

The remark called to mind a night like this one, when he had felt close to breaking and Horace had offered him words of comfort. They had been akin to a balm, inspiring him with confidence. Gratefully, Albus bid his colleague a good night and headed for his office, convinced he ought to trust his judgment. He had never been mistaken about Gellert; he was not mistaken about Sirius either. Whatever came about, he would do his utmost to protect this young man from harm. 

**Author's Note:**

> Albus's character, especially when older, has always been subject to controversy, and it’s not difficult to see why some readers can’t warm up to him. While we acknowledge his flaws, we wanted to show that in many cases, people aren’t born this way: they learn to treat others as chess pieces and manipulate them "for the greater good" in response to their own, sometimes traumatic experiences. We felt Albus’s story deserved to be told. 
> 
> Thank you very much for reading.


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